Patria
by DarthAlligator
Summary: Not your average Enjolras-meets-Patria fic. Weird.


The young girl on the corner was small, bony, and plain with stringy hair. Her paint was messily applied on her face and her faded pink dress was old and too small for her. It was years old and she couldn't afford another without missing too many meals. Even for a whore, the girl was depressing. She knew it, but she still smiled. She was proud of the fact that at sixteen, she hadn't lost any adult teeth yet.

When the young blonde man came onto the corner looking rushed and embarrassed, she hardly expected him to stop to look at the prostitutes, He hardly seemed the type. He must have had dozens of pretty rich girls hanging on his arm; what did he want with this lot? Even after he stopped and looked around, she didn't expect him to notice her. The bigger, prettier, pushier women were still there. She was usually one of the last girls chosen.

He noticed her. Their eyes locked, and she realized how beautiful they were: big, blue, innocent eyes with long lashes... She wished she had lashes like that young man. He moved closer to her and she batted her eye as well as she could. He reached her and took her hand in his. "May I?" he asked in a soft, cool voice. She smiled to show off her teeth and then gestured to the pimp. He paid for her and then took her by the arm. He didn't drag her roughly or try to romance her while still outside, but held her arm in his like she was a lady. He took her to his own apartment. She settled down on the bed.

He pulled out a box and handed it to her. "I hope these will fit. I'd like you to wear them." So he had his own costume? A few customers did that. They'd bring in a an exotic costumes or fancy dresses or clothes that belonged to their mothers. She looked inside and pulled out a clean soft peasant dress with an apron and a tricolor headband and sash.

She looked up at the calm, young man and smiled. "It's pretty, Monsieur," she said encouragingly, holding the dress up.

He nodded and picked up the sash. "There is no pattern in the world that is greater."

She blinked and then began to pull off her dress so she could change. The young man turned around quickly to give her privacy. She didn't need it, but she changed as fast as she could as it was.

"Patria," he said softly, reverently. It hit her. She wasn't just in a costume, she was playing a part for him. She stepped forward, blushing at the strange realization. "You don't need to be scared of me," he said, extending his hand for her.

"I'm not," she replied, taking his hand. He bent forward and kissed her scrawny, dirty knuckles with ridiculous, but sincere solemnity. He bent forward to kiss her, but hesitated. "I'm yours. Kiss me," she told him, stroking his smooth cheek. He did kiss her, so soft it almost tickled against her mouth. He peppered her with gentle, little kisses.

"Patria, I'm going to save you," he announced with a small, serious smile. He put his hands on his shoulders and kissed her more purposefully. "No more crying, no more pain. I will save you, even if I have to die." She looked up at him, frightened. This man wasn't about hurt himself for her sake, was he? He was taller and stronger than she was, so she couldn't stop him if he tried.

"Monsieur, I don't think that dying-"

"I don't plan on dying, of course," he reassured her, the vague smile still on his rosy lips. "Lamarque is dying. If we protest at his funeral, we will likely have a large enough crowd for revolution. I don't plan on dying, but there is a good chance of it. It will be violent. We will all be there fighting for you." He kissed her again.

They sat down on the bed, and he wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him, just breathing and wondering when this strange ordeal would be over. Did he even want sex? She had no idea.

"I'm sorry it's taken us so long, but the people aren't always ready to fight. It hasn't been the right rime. I'm sorry. I've done my best. I love you."

"I know. If anyone can, it's you. Thank-you." She half-believed her own words, even though they'd started as empty reassurances to shut him up. She bent forward and kissed him as his arms moved around her waist. His kisses were growing more fevered and intense, but he wouldn't allow her to take off any clothing, his or hers. It seemed he simply wanted to sit and continue with more of the same.

After a while, he moved away from the girl and sighed. "I suppose you need to leave soon."

She nodded and he pulled fifty francs from his pocket and gave it to the girl, who had started to change into her normal clothes. "Thank you, Monsieur," she said, shocked by the money in her hand. He didn't respond, but looked moodily at the floorboards. "Monsieur, may I keep the dress? You must see this is too small." He nodded. "Monsieur, can I ask why-"

He looked up grimly. "Why what?"

"Why I'm here?"

"I love my country. She's the only thing. I don't have a mistress, I don't speak to my family anymore, and my friends are mostly political ones. I-I was lonely." he said gloomily. She thought it best to leave as fast as she could; he didn't seem to be in a very good mood.

When she returned to the other streetwalkers on the corner, they'd been mildly interested to her about her strikingly handsome, blonde gentleman. She told them how he'd been polite and kind, and how his kisses were soft. She didn't tell them about the costume, or that all he'd done was kiss her. It would have felt like betraying the man who had seen her amid the crowd and wanted to save her. She lied and said he'd admired her full set of teeth, which annoyed many of the older women. It was what she'd hoped for.

She never saw him again but she thought of him in June when Lamarque died. She saw a bit of the funeral, but remained inside when the riots broke out. She cried worrying about the blonde boy even though she didn't know his name.

Reflecting back, she knew that he hadn't chosen her for her beauty or her figure, but rather by her lack of it. She was more than the everywoman; she was the oppressed and the unfortunate. In his costume and in his eyes, she became a living incarnation of what he wanted to save and of what he wanted to love.


End file.
